To Hermione
by MadTrout
Summary: To Hermione: No matter what you read, what I say, and what we learn, together, know always that I love you with the whole of my being and never doubt that I would do anything for you. Fleur Isabelle Delacour
1. Letter 1

To Hermione:

No matter what you read, what I say, and what we learn, together, know always that I love you with the whole of my being and never doubt that I would do anything for you.

Fleur Isabelle Delacour

Your wonderful curiosity inspired these letters.

We were strolling along the shore, waves crashing at our feet and you squealed when the crest touched your toes: In that moment, I was enraptured by your curls bouncing as you danced away from the cold water. It was a cloudy day over our French property, but your hair seduced the sun, and I knew the word 'brown' would never be a sufficient description. You caught me staring (as you always do). And I could feel the smile on my face and the heat of your hand in mine and the moment was perfect and I whispered over the waves,

"I love you."

And you stopped. You looked at me as if you didn't believe me. As if you were studying a new theory and found the evidence faulty. Like you just _couldn't _understand how it all worked.

My chest always aches when you look at me like that.

It ached then, and I wanted desperately to reassure you, to impress upon you just how _insatiable_ and _insurmountable _my love is for you.

And you responded, despondent and insecure, "I love you, too, Fleur. But I just don't understand why you settled for me."

I cannot find words. English or French or Latin or Veelain or otherwise to express to you the guilt and pain I felt in that second. It was like the air was taken from my lungs and a fist closed around my heart. I knew it was something magical. I knew it was an ancient punishment from my heritage. I hate that I deserved it then for not helping you understand what I feel for you at the center of _ma __âme_. I hate that I failed you.

Failure. It is such a bitter experience.

I had failed then as your lover, girlfriend, and mate to assure you of my affections.

I vow to never let it happen again. I vow that every day for as long as we are together I will write you, in the hope that one day your curiosity will rule you and you find this journal and any others to come and learn of my heart's passion and my mind's fascination, of all the facets of my love for you.

This, my love, is the first of many endeavors in helping you understand what I know in my heart to be true:

Hermione Granger, I love you. Je t'aime.

_Veuillez toujours,_

_Fleur Isabelle Delacour_


	2. Letter 17

Dearest Hermione,

Egypt is a desert in every sense of the word: Barren, dry, lonely. It's easy to lose track of time when the heat of the day is like every other and sky is a cloudless mass of blue. The sand reaches farther than I can see, and the monotony is unbearable. The locals inform me of many oases scattered along the outskirts of Cairo, but I know they would be poor substitutes for the paradise of your presence.

I miss you. I wish you were here. With me.

Deciphering these ancient runes is only so much of a distraction before my attention wanders back to you. Your lips. Your eyes. Your body…

I yearn for you through the hot days and cold nights. I shiver without your back pressed to my chest while we sleep. I can't sleep. I don't sleep. Not with you away.

Instead, I study the stars until exhaustion drags me into a fitful rest. You should see them all; they shine so much brighter away from all of the industry and buildings of London. I could spend weeks reading you their stories. Even though Divination was never your favorite, I know you would enjoy them.

I have been most irritable without you: You would think I was a goblin rather than a Veela. It is amazing what a week without you does to me, my love.

Seven days without your kiss… I can only imagine how your lips would taste like ambrosia: They would cool my sunburn and soothe my cracked mouth.

_Mon soleil, _the sun here is harsh on my skin and harmful to the eyes. It is nothing like you. Nothing like your warm touch and soft visage. It makes a mockery of your energy and life and warmth…

You would laugh if you knew that I dreamed of snowy London days, walking against the bitter wind with you and holding your chilly fingers in my. But the heat here in these dangerous tombs is like nothing I have every known and it is even more abhorrent knowing that I could be enjoying a cool, English November with you.

Exhaustion calls my attention like a jealous lover. I'm sorry if my hand writing is becoming illegible. I cannot wait to see you, but until then: In every spell I cast and every ward I break, know that I think of returning to you safely. We will be together soon, _mon amour. _

Needing you,

_Fleur Isabelle Delacour_


	3. Letter 31

**Letter # 31**

My love,

Today is the first day you were back in my arms since Cairo. My only regret is my lack of eloquence in describing how _merveilleux_ it felt to hold you again. Your arms were as firm and warm as I remember them when wrapped around my waist. Your face fell to the burrow of my neck and shoulder, and your breath was a warm breeze on my skin. Your curls brushed beneath my nose, and your scent flooded me with a million recollections of all of my happiest memories of us.

Together with you, I realized something: This was the first time since The War that we had been separated, and I think a part of me (our Veela most likely) knew this. It amplified my fear for your safety. My doubt that I would ever return to you augmented with every passing minute away from you. I was terrified of circumstances in which I would never be able to see you or hold you again.

I _knew_ I needed you prior to this contract, but now I'm certain that you are categorized with things like oxygen and food and water. I need you to survive, my love.

So even now as you slumber peacefully next to me, and your body basks in the afterglow of our love making, I am reluctant to fall asleep. Now that you are a hair's breadth away I am petrified that my return was some cruel dream, and that I will wake up alone and too hot with sand in scratchy, unfamiliar bed sheets.

And I write. To you. For you. Because I love you.

Hermione, I will never take your company for granted ever again.

I return to this entry some time later –I am unsure of exactly how long. I can barely contain my school-girl smile. You almost caught me writing love letters to you, and I don't want you to find these until later.

It sounds so silly and trite when worded this way.

The scratching of my quill woke you, but before you were able to ask questions I silenced you with a kiss and another and another and another and so much more… It is now my favorite form of misdirection.

You soon forgot why exactly you woke up in the first place. I hope you read this and picture the smirk I get when I've _fucked_ you well and good. Because I am smug now that I've fucked you well and good. Again.

You're asleep again and I'm proud to say that I am feeling much less anxious now. Our Veela is still insatiable and nervous, but you need to rest. I need rest.

As I close my eyes to sleep, know that if I had my way I would lie awake watching you for as long as you would let me: You are the one sight my eyes will never tire of.

It is good to have you back in my arms, Hermione Granger.

_Yours,_

_Fleur Isabelle Delacour_


End file.
